Trouble of Kings
by MercurialNight
Summary: Back in the Court of Miracles and after the festival, Clopin is confronted by the iron-willed gypsy he helped raise-as well as a few other troubles he can't handle quite as easily.


"Clopin!" the strong voice rang out, startling him into dropping his wooden mask. "I need a word with you."

With a surprised yelp, Clopin spun around wildly. But quickly, his expression changed, a delighted grin flooding across his face. "Why, Esmerelda!" he sang, spreading wide his hands. She stood in the entrance to his room, arms crossed, eyes darkly glaring. Uh-oh. Trouble. Pretend you don't notice, maybe you can distract her.

Clopin danced to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Escaped the Cathedral, have you? My dear, I knew you'd show those blundering oafs!"

"Clopin," she interjected, clearly less than amused.

"And a spectacular performance at the festival, I say." As if she hadn't spoken, he continued, returning to where he'd dropped his mask. "Even if you did destroy half the decorations…" he grumbled, picking up the mask and brushing it off. He placed it back into its satin-lined box where it belonged.

"Yes…the festival," her voice drawled, mannerism changing completely. That didn't sound good. She was playing into his act! …Could she _do_ that? Turning, Clopin saw her sitting on the top of his boudoir, legs crossed. She inspected her fingernails casually. "That's what I'd like to talk about."

Clopin's lighthearted grin faltered, the shadows returning. He turned away before she could notice—but she had already. "Whatever could that mean…" he mumbled, almost as if to himself.

Esmerelda leapt down, suddenly and fiercely coming forward. "Oh, you _know_ it. Clopin, you knew all along who he was; you singled him out from the moment you saw him trying to hide!"

Flighty as a sparrow, he had already swept to the other side of the room, occupied with folding up his brilliant jester's costume. Esmerelda followed relentlessly, yelling at him from behind. She never was one to give up easily. Hers was the iron will. Figures.

"I really ought to remember to stay out of your anger zone," he grumbled with an annoyed sigh.

"Clopin!" she protested, fists pounding the air. He didn't turn around. "Did—I don't understand, I mean, did you _know_ it would happen? Did you set him up, what?"

"Gah!" He huffed a sigh and looked up at the ceiling, dropping his head back dramatically. "Esmerelda, please! No one comes to a festival to hide; poor wretch was scared of a good time. My job is to entertain! I only made sure he was part of the entertainment." In light of his own cleverness, Clopin couldn't hide a small, dark grin.

"Ha! _Part_ of the entertainment." Esmerelda snorted, crossing her arms. She looked away, hating that heartless smile on his face. "You achieved that exactly—he was a brilliant entertainer. The way he begged for mercy was simply priceless."

"Wasn't it?" he beamed, spinning around to face her, hands on hips. "And to think I hadn't even planned it." He sighed contentedly and gazed at the ceiling, twirling the feather in his hat between two of his long, elegant fingers. "I don't even try to be this brilliant."

Esmerelda's eyes widened. She couldn't bring herself to say anything; the words got stuck in her throat. Clopin tossed her a wink and spun away, plopping into the chair in front of his mirror, and Esmerelda still could only stare. For the second time, his mannerism actually disgusted her. She hated the way he fidgeted and primped up his hair before carefully replacing his trademark hat: actions which, before, had always been bright little parts of his personality.

Her shock didn't come from seeing his devilishness. That, too, had been a part of his lovably devious nature. It was a part of him, and one she wouldn't change for the world. But this went beyond playful and bold—it was malice. There had been times over the years when she had been annoyed with Clopin, and furious with him, but never before had it been genuine hate. Because he hadn't ever been…harmful. "Clopin" now seemed a foreign name for a strange face: not at all the smiling man who had happily escorted her through childhood, always a spring in his step.

"Clopin," she whispered, stepping forward lightly. Her voice was quiet, but no less a challenge. "Please. A truthful answer."

"I never give anything less than the truth, dear one."

"I'm serious!" Her suddenly furious tone caused Clopin to actually look her way. To her broken relief, she saw genuine surprise there, instead of the infallible mask. It was probably because he could tell she was close to tears. "An answer! For…for _me_," she pleaded. "Is that enough!"

Slowly, the surprise drained from his eyes, giving way to an expression she'd only seen in rare, suspended moments of reprieve throughout the wild gypsy years. Clopin without his mask. But she only saw it for several seconds, as Clopin never was one to let people see him truly.

He turned away again, back to her, and fingered the polished box that held his jester's mask. "Fine. Want to hear it, Esmerelda?" his quiet voice was laced with pain and bitterness. "Want to see my inner demons? Alright. Here's my answer, dearest…and as you listen, discover the age-old cliché that it is impossible to know someone by looking at their face."

He paused for a moment, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Then he announced his answer, gesturing as if to a crowd. "I _wanted_ this. I enjoyed it. I wanted to see the judge's child mocked and scorned as we are. Surprise, surprise! Ohh, the inhumanity, or whatever…"

Esmerelda backed away, staring in painful confusion. As she watched, he picked up his purple mask and donned it, covering the dark, angry, sorrowful face in the mirror. He stared at his reflection, saying no more. Esmerelda reached the door, trying to tear her eyes away from him so that she could leave. She couldn't. Instead, she actually came forward. In the mirror, Clopin's eyes moved from his face to hers as she came up behind him. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

"How is it," she murmured gently, "that you can give such wise advice…and not have learned it yourself?" He didn't respond, but she hadn't expected him to. Clopin turned his head to face her, but she stopped him by putting a soft kiss on his cheek.

Clopin rolled his eyes, a small smile grudgingly breaking his face. "The mentor becomes the mentored. So many clichés…"

Esmerelda laughed, forcing his smile to widen. She patted his shoulder and turned to go. "Hating the rich because they are rich will get us nowhere," she added, turning back at the doorway. "Except where it has gotten them. Wanna end up there?" With that and a final, sad smile, she left, closing his door.

Alone, Clopin looked back into the mirror. In place of his masked face, his mind saw the hunchback tied to a spinning platform, a vicious crowd of spectators pelting him with rotten food...and, among them, a cruel jester with a devilish grin and tomato juice staining his gloves.


End file.
